


A Very Long Night

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: a certain ability to recognise objects under our noses [4]
Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blessed are the peacemakers. (Unless they're Jasson, who is just trying to get through this ball alive.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Long Night

          Jasson had sat, danced, flirted and small-talked his way through a lot of balls. It was expected; he lived at the palace and he was a prince, even if he was the third son.

 

          He didn’t exactly get bored of them, because people were always trying to come up with new twists and entertainments, and something interesting sometimes happened. If he could find Lianne or Mother or one of his smarter year-mates to talk to, he could enjoy a little people-watching in decent company. He could dance with almost anyone he wanted to, and sometimes he’d meet someone new or discover something different about someone he knew by reputation already: for instance, the ball at which he’d found out that Lady Maura of Dunlath was both an excellent dancer and clever as she could stare, and therefore fun to dance with _and_ interesting to talk to stood out in his memory as one of the better ones. However, such parties could be a bit predictable, more the sort of thing that made him think of ways he could better spend the time, and they often felt horribly dull after a long stretch away from the capital with his knight-master.

 

          Jasson leaned against the wall, and waited for Liam to turn up. After all, this ball was partially in his brother’s honour –one reason why Jasson, a seventeen-year-old squire, was allowed to attend- though Jasson wouldn’t be surprised if his cocky brother didn’t turn up on schedule, preferring to make a dramatic entrance. He sincerely hoped that living at the famously decadent Tyran court hadn’t made Liam even worse than he had been before he left to meet the new Tyran ambassador and his lady and escort them back to Tortall; Jasson hadn’t seen his brother since before the beginning of that trip, eight or nine months ago.

 

          “Hey, Roald,” he called to his older brother, who was marching past looking slightly fevered, “have you seen Liam?”

 

          Roald stopped in his tracks. “Yes. Why?”

 

          Jasson waved a hand. “He’s supposed to be joining me.”  


          “Oh? Jay, you haven’t seen him for the past- well, almost a year, am I right?” Roald was developing a funny look on his face. Jasson watched in surprise.

 

          “No. Why?”

 

          A faint smile turned the corners of Roald’s mouth up. “Prepare yourself for a shock,” he said dryly, and then marched off.

 

          Time passed. Jasson gave up on mulling over Roald’s unusually cryptic comments, wondered if the ball had started yet, and exchanged a few words with Vania, who was running around trying to escape wearing a head-dress of flowers to the ball, which she would be briefly attending as she was now thirteen and personable enough to charm the birds out of the trees. He saw Lianne and Alan pass by, but didn’t hail either of them, since they looked a little too wrapped up in each other for Jasson’s personal comfort: they were betrothed, but not marrying until Lianne had finished her advanced healer’s studies with the high marks everyone expected of her, and they had just been parted for three months, so the atmosphere around them was a little intense. Going on rumour about the Ambassador and his retinue’s womanising habits, Jasson confidently expected at least one amusing incident involving Lianne, a slightly drunken diplomat, Alan and the third having a Quiet Word with the second. He supposed that he might end up assisting Alan in the execution of the Quiet Word, but that was fine by him: being accosted, as Lianne sometimes was, often seriously upset her despite the fact she could have most of the culprits unconscious and missing vital organs within the hour, and Jasson was all for frightening anyone who thought scaring his sisters acceptable behaviour.

 

          It began to seem as if Liam was never going to turn up, and then Jasson spotted a vaguely familiar figure sauntering towards him the way Liam did, and with the right colour hair to be Liam.

 

          Prince Liam of Conté got a little closer, enough that Jasson could properly see his clothing, and Jasson’s jaw dropped- and stayed dropped.

 

          Somehow, Liam had managed to turn into even more of a peacock than he had been previously. He was wearing a ridiculously long brown velvet tunic with enormous draping sleeves, very pointy and embroidered shoes, a wide, gold- and jewel-encrusted belt, blue hose, and- Jasson closed his jaw with an effort –his floppy brown hair was so long it was getting into his eyes, and the moustache was even more ludicrous than it Jasson remembered, which was saying something. Liam halted about a metre from Jasson, and gave his brother a long and incredulous stare. “Dear brother, how charming to see you again, what _are_ you wearing?”

 

          “A tunic,” Jasson answered. “And hose. Why are you wearing brown? I thought you hated brown.”

 

          Liam lifted a censorious eyebrow, and Jasson cursed mentally. He must have learnt to do that in Tyra. “Jasson, this is not brown. This is Princess Lianne Russet, and it’s _all_ the rage.”

 

          Jasson nearly fainted, but recovered fairly quickly, as one would expect from someone who had grown up in close proximity to seven very individual, eccentric and royal personages. “... It doesn’t suit you.”

 

          Liam pouted, a sure sign of injured ego. “I’ll have you know it brings out the colour of my eyes.”

 

          “Skin whoever told you that, they were lying,” Jasson returned absently, still staring. “And _Princess Lianne Russet_?”

 

          “Oh yes,” Liam said cheerfully. “Lianne’s been making a big impression. Quite by mistake, and mostly by letter. I read a couple of hers out to some of my new friends, and showed them a sketch... told them this brown was her favourite colour... that sort of thing. Apparently pretty, feisty princesses are just the thing in Tyra. My new friends are dying to meet her. Alan had better watch out!” And he winked at Jasson.

 

          Jasson felt dizzy with horror: this was only getting worse. “You read out her letters? Inspired a bunch of Tyrans to fall in love with her by letter? Lianne is going to _kill_ you. That’s if Alan doesn’t get there first! And are you mad? Alan will disembowel anyone who tries to flirt with Lianne!”

 

          Liam flapped an indolent hand. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

 

          Jasson moaned, and dropped his head into his hands.

 

          “Jasson. Jay. Jasson. _Dear_ brother. What are you wearing?”

 

          “We’ve been through this,” Jasson wailed, contemplating Death By Lianne when Lianne assumed, as she inevitably would, that he had somehow been involved in Liam’s actions. “A tunic and hose! And a belt! And a sword, it looks like I’m actually going to need it, gods help me-“

 

          “You look like you’ve been scalped,” Liam said disapprovingly, eyeing Jasson’s very short hair. “You always look like a fool when you’ve had your hair cut so short. Why did you let anyone do that to you?”

 

          Jasson glared distractedly at his brother. “Are you suggesting I co-ordinate my haircuts with palace entertainments? Because if so, you can stick it-“

 

          “And your manners could use some work,” his elder brother noted. “You’ll never get a girl if you look, act and dress like a lout.”

 

          Jasson spluttered, segueing from Brother, Horrified to Prince, Incandescent. “ _Excuse me_?”

 

          “You heard me,” Liam said serenely. “Ah well, I suppose you’ll do... You’re a Conté, after all. You did get some share of the family looks, even if they were so unfairly handed out to the girls and me, and of course you can carry off nearly anything with the family attitude... Yes, that’s the one. Come on, then, we’re already late!”

 

          He swept off towards the herald, and Jasson followed with a distinctly black scowl on his face. “Anyone would think it was my fault we’re so late,” he snapped at his brother as Vania, who was supposed to accompany them, leapt up from where she’d been playing cards with a besotted page and joined her brothers with a few choice words about tardy idiots. Jasson spared her a bad-tempered glance, and decided that Alan could worry about Lianne by himself; Vania looked a good deal older than thirteen in her purple gown, especially since she’d escaped the flowery headdress in favour of a small silver tiara.

 

          He straightened, put on his best regal face, and hissed in Vania’s direction: “Remember, if anyone bothers you, just find me and point me to them...”

 

          “Or dunk them in the fishpond?” Vania suggested through her sweet princess-y smile as the herald announced ‘Prince Liam of Conté, Prince Jasson of Conté, Princess Vania of Conté’ and Vania laid a light hand on Jasson’s arm.

 

          “Or that,” Jasson conceded quietly as they strolled carefully down the stairs, and bowed or curtseyed before their parents, who smiled benevolently.

 

          Talking through one’s smile was a valuable skill in the Conté family, and Thayet had mastered it. “Why are you so late?” she said softly to Jasson. Jasson winced, and rolled his eyes in Liam’s direction.

 

          The Tyran ambassador rushed to greet Liam as the nobles began to mingle again. “Liam, _mon cher_! It is so good to see you! Your Palace is so large we feared you were lost when you vanished, never to return... But Liam! Your sister! You said she was pretty; she is _exquisite_! She may not be _exactly_ in the Tortallan style, but, my friend, I daresay you are beating off her suitors... I would be one, if I wasn’t married!” He winked. Jasson, as a dutiful brother, disliked that wink. It was far too lewd.

 

          “No, mostly Sir Alan does that,” he interrupted, a little rudely. “Her betrothed. One of the best swordsmen at Court. Perhaps you haven’t met?”

 

          The Tyran ambassador turned to look at him, both eyebrows raised, eyes noting Jasson’s clothes and haircut. “But _mon cher_ \- this must be your brother! Prince Jasson, the youngest Conté brother - your highness, it is an honour to meet you.” He bowed low.

 

          Jasson bowed shortly, in order to be polite. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a dance to collect from my sister. Liam, Your Excellency-“ He nodded to both of them, observing Liam’s look of barely-concealed amusement and mentally damning his brother’s sense of mischief, before making a beeline for the nearest balcony.

 

          He was almost there before Faleron of King’s Reach, a cousin, intercepted him. “Look, Jasson, can’t you get someone to have a word with these Tyrans? Merric’s spitting fire because one of them keeps eyeing Kel like a brood mare, Neal’s becoming sarcastic, and the King’s Own are getting a wee bit on the shirty side about it too-“

 

          “Later!” Jasson growled. “I need air, Fal, let me pass!”

 

          He shoved past the older knight, and continued his single-minded march towards the balconies, but not before being accosted by a slightly rumpled Vania. “Don’t go outside, there’s a Tyran in the fishpond,” she advised blithely. “Being nibbled to death by the carp, I hope. He thought he could take some liberties, you see, so I told him where he could stick that. I don’t know _how_ old he thought I was, I think he was very drunk. If you want me to point you in his direction later, I will-“

 

          “Later!” Jasson promised, straightening his sister’s tiara and tugging at the shoulders of her dress to make it hang straight, and then striding onwards.

 

          Lord Raoul caught him just before he reached the balconies. “Jasson, lad, speak to the Tyrans, will you? Alan will challenge one to a duel in a moment- I’ve left him and Lianne simmering in the nearest ante-room-“

 

          “ _Later_!” Jasson nearly howled, wondering when he’d become his extended family’s problem-solver.

 

          “Ah,” Lord Raoul said, and fell away. Jasson pushed past the velvet curtains, and reached the balcony, the cold night air soothing on his skin. He heard the soft, soothing sounds of the breeze in the trees, muted laughter and music, and a now very sober Tyran delegate splashing helplessly in the fishpond beneath. For a moment, he felt very peaceful as he realised that Vania had probably dealt with that brouhaha satisfactorily on her own, and by the looks of the lad he was just that - a lad – probably of Jasson’s own age, too drunk to distinguish a self-possessed, confident and pretty thirteen-year-old from a sixteen-year-old and flirting a little too heavily as a consequence. Jasson still didn’t feel in the least sympathetic, and was still contemplating duelling the lad on the strength of it, but the sound of the splashing and the sight of the boy’s helplessness certainly improved his mood.

 

          King Jonathan slipped through the drapes behind him, and came to stand beside him, leaning against the balcony. “Hello, Da,” Jasson said.

 

          “Hello, Jasson,” King Jonathan said equably. “Peaceful out here, isn’t it? The wind in the trees, the twinkling of the stars, the sound of one of your sisters’ suitors floundering in the pond below... It reminds me of the year Kally turned sixteen.”

 

          Jasson groaned inside. He could not deal with his father being circumspect, not now. Da would circle round and round a point till Jasson was dizzy, and then dive in for the kill. “What do you want, Da?”

 

          “Want?” King Jonathan said, sounding injured.

 

          Jasson sighed. “Everyone wants something tonight, Da. Cousin Fal wants me to warn the Tyran delegates off eyeing up Lady Knight Keladry in case the Own skewer them, Uncle Raoul wants me to stop them worshipping Lianne, Vania wants me to duel that nitwit down there and Liam wants me to dress like... like- like a _fool_.” He put his head in his hands. “It’s going to be a long night, Da, so spit it out.”

 

          Jonathan grinned, white teeth shining in the gloom. “If you really insist, you may speak to your mother about the reason why you were so late...”

 

          “One word,” Jasson said without preamble. “That word is Liam.”

 

          “I understand,” Jonathan pointed out. “The problem is your mother.”

 

          Jasson sighed. “Of course.” Thayet had quite a serious blind spot when it came to her second son. “All right, Da, I’m going.”

 

          He pushed back out through the curtains, into the noise and heat of the party, took a deep breath, and got his bearings. Vania due south, laughing with some Riders trussed up in formal uniform. Roald and Shinko, making polite conversation. Alan and Lianne, dancing together and looking every inch the fairytale pair. Liam, flirting with the Tyran ambassador’s wife. Ah, there was Mother, chatting with Lady Ilane.

 

          Jasson skirted the dancefloor, heading for his mother. Yes: it was going to be a very long night.


End file.
